


Logic and Passion

by alcoholicberry, Writteraddict



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Greg and John, Greg's ex is crazy, John Watson/Greg Lestrade - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, Mycroft's Meddling, Scheming Sherlock Holmes, Sex, Sherlock loses his chance, Sherlock's an idiot, brief mention of a threesome, fix it fic kind of, ignoring past season two, more tags as posted, post season two, trigger warnings: attempted overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcoholicberry/pseuds/alcoholicberry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writteraddict/pseuds/Writteraddict
Summary: Sherlock’s jump from St. Bart's left John crushed. Just when he’d begun to come to terms with his feelings for his flat mate, the man dies right before his eyes. But his suffering hasn’t gone unnoticed and now two years after the fact, a certain Detective Inspector has decided to help pieces of John’s life and hopefully the two of them can navigate this new phase of their lives together. The only problem? Sherlock isn’t actually dead and after years of hunting down Moriarty's men one by one, Mycroft has called him back to London to make sure he doesn’t lose what he was fighting for.Post season two and ignoring the rest (since the bulk of this was written before the other seasons had come out...but let’s call it a fix it fic.)





	1. The Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited because it just takes so gosh darn long and this is a monster of an rp from back in the day. That being said, I love it because of the fluff and angst and drama and hope whoever reads it appreciates it just as much. This was a labor of love, so please be kind. We don't know everything so some pieces are probably grossly inaccurate when it comes to anything medical. But this is fantasy so please suspend your disbelief. 
> 
> I've also made a bit of a trailer for the fic which you can check out on youtube: /watch?v=QH6IGZ5topo
> 
> Thanks and enjoy.

When Sherlock had fallen from the roof of St. Bart's, John felt like his whole world had shattered around him. His one friend, a man he had spent 18 months developing a special friendship with had thrown himself from the building over silly lies. And they were lies, John couldn't believe them to be anything else. Wouldn't believe. 

So he had spent several months going over the details trying to decide if he wanted to believe the hype that surrounded his friend or not. Of course in that time Mrs. Hudson had become his stone and likewise he her’s. There never seemed to be a moment when he was too busy to sit down and just have tea with her and mull over old memories. It still hurt though, even after months of trying to figure out what Sherlock had meant; months spent trying to decide if Sherlock was alive somewhere in hiding and just messing with him or if he was indeed dead. 

After several trips to the therapist (at Mrs. Hudson and Harry’s request) he had decided that Sherlock was indeed deceased and nothing John said or did could bring him back. So he attempted to go about his life as normal, returning to 221B Baker Street as if nothing had happened.

But it didn’t work as well as he thought it might. The entire time he spent wallowing in self pity, talking to ghosts; the skull on the mantelpiece becoming his new best friend. He would head off to work at the clinic, which was quickly becoming repetitious, then to the pub. Even though he disliked Harry’s drinking problem, he could see why she had clung so tightly to the bottle when problems arose. It took away the torment and the hatred he had for not being able to prevent what had happened. So regardless of his hatred for alcohol, he found solace in it.

So time passed and John found himself falling into the shoes of someone who looked to alcohol to take the pain away. He would use alcohol to numb his pain and when that wasn’t enough and he found himself curled in bed weeping, he would reach for the browning and just hold the gun in his hands wondering if it would be better to just join his former flatmate. 

Eventually he found himself sitting across from Greg Lestrade, trying to remember why the detective inspector was at his place of residence. 

Greg looked around the flat, which he’d expected to be organized to a military level by now, but it looked even worse than when Sherlock had been alive somehow. Now the empty spaces were filled with empty bottles, plates and half drunk mugs of tea that hadn’t made their way back to the kitchen yet.

Really he was trying to look anywhere but at John, astounded by the change in the man. Hadn’t it just been a couple of months ago he’d seen him and he’d been fine? Exactly how long had slipped past him since their last lunch.

“I’m...I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. My job’s been...keeping me busier than usual lately,” he murmured, running his hands along his thighs to rid them of the anxious moisture that had developed. “That and moving again... been a lot of adjusting,” he added with a weak chuckle, the laughter being the only thing that had gotten him through not only the divorce but being forced to recognize that there was a lot of his job that he could barely do without Sherlock Holmes.

“So...I was wondering if maybe... you wanted to have dinner now and then. Not in a date sense,” he clarified quickly, rubbing the back of his head. “I hate cooking just for myself but when I order in I always get too much. I’ve put on half a stone in a month. Anyway, don’t know about you but I could use the company in the evenings,” he added, looking up sheepishly at John and holding his breath to see if his half truth would be believed.

John just stared across the room wondering if he had in fact spiked his tea with far too much alcohol since he was hearing the strangest things coming from Greg’s mouth. Not in a date sense? Why the hell would he think that in the first place? Then he quickly reminded himself that it was probably all the jokes he’d heard about Sherlock and himself that led to everyone thinking he was gay. But he wasn’t....at least...he didn’t think so. 

“Dinner?” he asked, rolling the words around on the tip of his tongue as if they were foreign. It was weird to hear such a phrase from anyone but Sherlock and only served as a reminder of his missing friend. “I’m..I don’t know.” he finally admitted. 

He didn’t need to drag Greg into what was slowly becoming the most messed up point in his life. He was certain that even after being dismissed from the war he wasn’t this bad. 

“Why though? You’ve got plenty of friends on the force? Why would you want to have dinner with me?” 

Greg’s brows furrowed and he rubbed his hands against his thighs again. “John, you’re my friend. We...we used to get together for lunch all the time. Well, as often as we could. And we’d...we’d have a laugh at Sherlock’s expense...” Sliding forward a little in what had been Sherlock’s seat, Greg reached a hand out until it rested against John’s wrist. “Don’t you remember any of that? We’re worried about you, John, a lot of us are”

Staring down at his wrist being held by Greg created a strange feeling in John’s stomach. He wasn’t sure what it meant but he was sure it wasn’t good. He tried his best to ignore it, instead looking across at the man currently occupying Sherlock's favorite chair and bit his lip. 

“Look,” he started, “I’m fine. Everything is...fine.” Though it was far from the truth he couldn’t bring himself to tell the man across from him how utterly lonely it was without Sherlock there to distract him. He was about to tell Greg that there was nothing to worry about when he remembered what Sarah had told him at the clinic that morning. How he was basically put on probation until he could prove his head was in the game when it came to saving lives. He had agreed with her and taken some time off in an attempt to do just that.. 

Now he was thankful for the jumpers he wore. No one was the wiser to the cuts he was self inflicting each night, the ones that reminded him that he could still feel pain and hopefully pleasure. The hurt that reminded him that he was still alive and Sherlock was six feet under. 

“But if it helps set your mind at ease then I suppose I can come round for dinner one night.” 

Greg, being far too trusting in general and even more so when it came to John, relaxed visibly, the tension draining from his posture. “That’d be great, John, really. And it’s not just because I’m worried, it’s because I miss you. And I miss him. You’re sort of... the biggest and best part of him I’ve got left too. And it’s been awhile since we’ve caught up, right? I want to know what’s been going on with you. How’s work been? Your sister...Mrs. Hudson,” he added with a smile, hoping he hid the fact that he knew very well about all of those things, as he’d had discussions with the three major women in John’s life lately. They’d all noticed his downward spiral where he’d completely missed all the signs.

“How about tomorrow? We could order in if you like, or there’s a great Indian place up the road from me. I’m not picky,” he added, just to be easy going. There was no way he was going to let John destroy himself, not even over Sherlock Holmes, not if he could do something to prevent it.

It felt strange to John to be discussing dinner plans like nothing had happened. He knew Greg’s heart was in the right place and it was touching to know that someone outside of his immediate family (which consisted of his sister) cared enough to drop in on him. 

He took a sip of his spiked tea, again wondering why he had decided to put the blasted alcohol in a perfectly good cuppa. But the more he thought of it the more he was reminded that the alcohol had become something to get him through the day. “Indian sounds fine.” he replied, forcing a smile. “Haven’t eaten much in the past few days.” then realizing what he had just said, quickly added, “Not that it’s Mrs. Hudson’s fault. She tries to feed me up. I just...don’t seem to have the appetite I used to.” Great, now he felt like an idiot, best to cover that up as soon as possible. 

“Works been steady. Sarah’s tried to give me enough shifts to distract me and it seems to be working.” he didn’t dare say that he’d been practically put on suspension till he shaped up. “And Harry’s as fine as she can be. As for Mrs. Hudson, she’s been a godsend, bless her, but even I need a break from her chipper mood at times. How are things at the station? Been busy?”

His smile becoming strained again when it became obvious they were just going to keep lying to one another, Greg swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “Yeah, wish you could still come by like you used to. We really had to tighten regulations after...” Pursing his lips, Lestrade gave it a minute before letting out a heavy sigh and continuing. “It’s been hard. A case that Sherlock used to come in and spend five minutes looking over now takes weeks, if we’re lucky. I feel...so stupid sometimes, because I can practically hear him telling me how small my mind is for not seeing. But, in a very small consolation, it is nice to solve a few on my own. And it’s been good to keep busy since the funeral and the divorce. Get my kids every other weekend,” he added, picking up his own tea and wondering how long he should stay today. 

“John, I know it’s hard. I do, but it does get better. It can get better, if you let it,” he added, giving John’s arm a little squeeze before sitting back.

The memories seemed to be flooding back now and John had to look away to keep himself from crumbling in front of Lestrade. Even though Harry told him that he was better off now, that he could have a normal life without all the chaos, he still craved it. The excitement of solving a case, when Sherlock would use his brilliance to save lives. Donovan had told him once that Sherlock was bound to get bored in the end but he hadn’t, in the end he had killed himself out of shame. 

“Everyone calls him a fake, Greg,” John finally voiced, “They say he was creating crimes and then solving them but it’s not true.” he was almost choking on the words now. All the words that his therapist had hoped to get out of him were just falling out in front of Greg. “He knew things. Knew of things; things people can’t even fathom knowing and they still think he’s a fake...” he paused before looking away again. He knew Lestrade knew all of this and that knowing didn’t matter anymore but he couldn’t keep it bottled up. He felt like he was going to explode at any moment with grief, even after all this time. _What does that say about our relationship_ , he wondered. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking back a sob before clearing his throat. “I shouldn’t bring him up.” a weak smile replaced his grim demeanor, “It’s in the past and I just need to forget it. Besides, from what I hear you’re doing quite well case wise.”

For a long moment Greg didn’t know whether he should let the conversation continue forward or if he needed to go back and reassure the younger man.

“Well, yeah, I suppose. That many years with the man pointing out why I was such an idiot must have taught me something,” he murmured, spinning his mug slowly in his hands. “I never believed it, you know. Me, I liked to think I knew him pretty well. Not like you, but pretty well. Everything I’ve seen of him, I knew it wasn’t true. I never would have even looked into it if it hadn’t been for the little girl and the fact I knew they’d go over my head. You and I, well, we’re pretty much all the people he would care knew the truth, right?”

He was about to say more when his mobile beeped loudly in his pocket and he pulled it out with a frustrated sigh. “Shite...I’ve got to run,” he mumbled, his eyes purely apologetic as he looked back up at John. “Tomorrow, quarter on eight? I’ll even bring the food to you, this time,” he added, stepping close enough he could give John’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Just call me if anything comes up, all right?

John gave a tight nod not bothering to watch Greg disappear out of the flat and down the steps. He was once again left alone at the flat with nothing more than southern comfort and tea in his mug. It was like the world once again was shutting down so he could hate himself. He should have been there. He should have been on the roof of St. Bart's with his browning and protected Sherlock from whatever scheme Moriarty had cooked up. He should have been the one to end the consulting criminal's life, after all, he had had a bomb strapped to his chest courtesy of the man. 

Downing the remainder of his tea, he set the mug aside before heading into Sherlock’s room. Most of his flatmates things had been packed up and stored in the attic in the hope that Mycroft might finally come around and collect them. John found himself fumbling forward and collapsing on the bed in the center of the room. He’d taken to sleeping in Sherlock’s room whenever he knew he wouldn’t get a good night's rest. It was probably the smell that brought him back and comforted him; keeping away dreams of Afghanistan and the night of Sherlock’s death and instead replacing them with happy memories. 

He curled up in a tight ball, clinging to the sheets. How could one man have this much control over him? How could one man make him cry more than he’s ever cried in his entire life? The remainder of the day he spent sobbing into the sheets, trying his best to once again come to terms with what had happened months ago. 

When John woke up it was nearly five in the morning. “Sherlock...” he groaned rolling over and reaching out a hand towards a person that wasn’t there. When his brain finally processed that he was alone, John opened his eyes to stare at the wall. This was no way to live. No wonder he disliked his sister's habit so much, it just served to further the self-loathing. 

Gathering himself up, he walked out of Sherlock’s room and into the bathroom across the hall. Flicking on the light, he looked in the mirror at what he could only assume was his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, the rest of him looking rather unhealthy as well. Since Sherlock’s funeral he had more or less forgotten to eat and it was showing now with the rapid loss of weight. There had to be something better than this, somewhere he could find peace of mind. 

Reaching a hand up, John opened the small cabinet to the side of the mirror and looked over the content. His medical mind rushed through the various prescriptions and quickly located the single bottle he knew would send him out without much pain. Popping the lid off he tossed the entire content into his mouth without a second thought. 

Then closing the cabinet, he sank back against the door to the bathroom, head hanging between his legs while he waited for the sleepiness to overtake him. 

**** 

“Pressure?”

“135 over 93. Heart rate...128 bpm. Dr. Watson, can you hear me?”

“Unresponsive to voice, full sternum rub. There we go, response to pain. How long since suspected ingestion and what did he take?”

“Sedatives, a lot of them, we’ll need to pump his stomach. Ingestion was suspected to be an hour ago. Dr. Watson... We need to check his kidney functions right away. Contact the family, this could be touch and go.”

“Who brought him in?"

"Neighbor apparently has a friend on the force, they were both waiting with him. Dr. Watson, stay with us. Your friends are very worried about you. Someone call up to psych and make sure they have a spot available. Have we found the family yet?”

“Yes, a sister, she’s on her way in.”

“Good, have her set him up to be sent upstairs for release on the doctor’s recognizance.”

Greg slipped into John’s room after all the doctors and nurses had finally left, hesitantly slipping his hand into John’s. When the usually pleasant and round face turned to him he shook his head sadly. “Now you’re an even bigger asshole than he ever was,” Greg whispered, leaning in close so he wouldn’t have to be any louder. “I was there with you today. You looked me in the eyes and told me you were alright and then you go and do this? Damn it, John, I know I’m shite at having my life together but why couldn’t...why couldn’t you have said something. I would have stayed with you, I would have... Why did you do this, John? There is more to this god damn life than Sherlock Holmes!” 

He didn’t really expect an answer, John was still doped to the gills and even if he weren’t, what could the man say? “Don’t you dare, ever tell me that everything is fine when it’s not again.” Sighing heavily, Lestrade rubbed the back of his head and scowled. “God, what am I supposed to do with you...”

John had been in and out of consciousness for hours. One minute he would be in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade staring down at him all worried and the next he was looking up at faces he didn’t recognize shining lights into his eyes. He felt halfway between death and reality; every time he swallowed, the memory of what he had done raced through his mind. How could he have let them save him? Had he not taken enough of the sedatives to ensure he wouldn’t wake up?

He groaned, shifting a bit in the bed as he felt around for some sort of recognition. Hospital bed obviously, but there was someone with him. Someone who was holding his hand. The first thought that ran through his mind was that Sherlock was sitting beside him. That everything up until this point had been a dream. He wanted to call out, to say the name but his voice failed him. 

There was something distinctly different though. The voice was strange, not the usual patronizing baritone he was used to and the hand...the hand was rougher, not like Sherlock’s delicate fingers. He gradually opened his eyes, the lids still heavy and hard to open. So the drug was still in his system then. Obviously they hadn’t pumped his stomach or he would have been complaining about something other than the inability to really focus on his guest. 

“Greg?”

To be recognized was brilliant and Lestrade almost smiled in relief, until John tried to shift his arm and the restraints caught it. Smiling sadly, he used his free hand to press the limb back against the bed. “Yes, you bastard,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Glad to see you’re still with me. Just rest for now. Your doctor will be back soon and they only let me in here because I flashed around my badge.”

A noise in the hall drew his attention for a moment before he slipped back onto the edge of the bed and leaned in really close. “John, you listen to me. You don’t belong here, and they’re not going to let you go until you’re better. So you need to get better, hear me?”

It was more of a shock the fact that Greg was hovering over him, then John’s arms being restrained. As it was, he was unable to really move period but the idea of having his arms held down started his mind panicking. Where the hell was he? He was in a hospital obviously but the restraints spoke of a guarded room where his free will was taken away from him. 

This thought seemed to pull him more fully out of the foggy drug daze. His eyes widened and flashed around the room taking in several small cameras before landing on Greg’s face. If Lestrade was here then he obviously was in safe hands but the words the DI whispered to him sent off alarms. 

“Get better?” he asked, pulse increasing due to the closeness. “What’s going on?”

“You tried, and very nearly succeeded in offing yourself, John. That’s what’s going on.” Greg’s posture became stiffer and he hazarded another glance at the door, knowing he was going to be kicked out any minute. “John, what you did to me is just as bad as what he did to you. I was with you just before. Why didn’t you...”

He was cut off as the door swung open and in stepped the psychiatrist that had been assigned to John.

“Detective, I really have to insist that you leave. It’s procedure for inpatients not to have any visitors for twenty-four hours, for their own good,” the doctor insisted, holding the door open pointedly.

“Yeah, alright. A minute, please,” he added, turning back to John defeated. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, I promise. Please, try to get your head together, John. Sherlock would never have wanted this for you.”

“Detective, please...”

“Yeah, I’m going,” Greg sighed, giving John’s hand a quick squeeze before grudgingly standing. “You have a lot of people who care about you, John. If you can’t do it for yourself, be strong for us.”

The news that people actually cared about him was a surprise. Of course he knew Mrs. Hudson cared but then she cared about almost everyone that came through her door. So he did feel a bit guilty about trying to kill himself and leave her behind, especially with an empty flat with no renters. 

Then there was Harry. He knew his sister would be livid when he next saw her. Probably already demanding that the hospital staff let her in to see him or so help her she would get the police involved. 

And then there was Lestrade. Which surprised him the most. He had always suspected that they were friends, everything that they went through together had cemented that. But Greg had been holding his hand only moments ago, had pleaded with him to fight and stay alive. The sadness that John saw in the other man’s eyes spoke of something more than friendship and the words kept repeating in his mind. ‘ _What you did to me is just as bad as what he did to you.’_

Feeling sleepy once again, John turned his head away from Greg and to the far side of the room. Maybe he had been selfish, but at the time he had felt it was the only solution to curing the empty part in his heart. He closed his eyes recalling what had happened several times before dozing off again. 

*****

Mycroft frowned at the report sitting in front of him then back to Anthea. “Are you quite certain?” 

She replied with a sad nod. “Our agent that was following Doctor Watson watched them take him to the hospital. From what we can gather he tried to commit suicide.” 

Mycroft watched her for a few moments, hands peaked in front of his face in concentration. He had rather hoped to avoid speaking with his brother on this matter after promising that he would look after the good Doctor. 

“Very well,” he pulled out his blackberry and scrolled through the various numbers before nodding to Anthea. 

She returned a tight smile before retreating to make him a cup of strong tea. Even being as strong as he was Mycroft could use the comfort of the magical drink; after speaking with his brother especially. 

Upon finding the number, Mycroft leaned back and waited for his younger brother to pick up. The long distance charges were going to be murder.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was very unusual for Mycroft to contact him, Sherlock probably would have just let his mobile ring. Instead he butted out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and picked up the phone with a sigh.

“I was working, Mycroft, this better be good.” He’d given up on trying to quit while being overseas. Traveling all over the world was far too taxing. Besides, it’s not like there was anyone around to make sure he stuck to it this time. And the brain work, he needed all the help he could get. Searching out Moriarty’s remaining lieutenants had proven harder than he’d thought and he refused to quit until he knew his friends would be safe.

Three months of no contact outside of a transfer of money and this was how his brother greeted him. Mycroft frowned at the report once again. It it wasn’t for the fact he had come to appreciate John Watson he would have never bothered making this tedious call. 

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an upset in your plan,” he said, drumming his free hand on the desk. Maybe Anthea would bring him some scotch to put in his tea. “Doctor Watson’s been hospitalized, dear brother. Self inflicted injuries it would seem.”

Sitting up straighter, Sherlock glanced on reflex at the CCTV video footage of John walking home from work that Mycroft had sent him. The man’s limp was far more pronounced again, as bad if not worse than it had been when they’d first met. He’d seen immediately the changes in John since he’d left but he’d had no idea that it had gotten this bad.

“I have one more I have to get, Mycroft. Can you arrange for me to come home?” he asked, studying the dark circles under John’s eyes. “Is he safe? Tell me everything.”

“From what my men tell me, he’s been hospitalized and quarantined under strict watch. I have my people working on acquiring a more private residence on the ward since John will have to stay put for some time.” he glanced up as Anthea returned with a hot cup of Earl Grey tea and set it before him.

He smiled and gave a quick nod before continuing. “He’s been in and out of consciousness but from what I’ve heard from Inspector Lestrade he’s woken up long enough to recognize what’s going on around him.” 

Mycroft brought the tea to his lips and sipped the scalding liquid, perfect as always, at least three sugars had been added. What would he do without Anthea? “How long do you need?” 

After lighting another smoke, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, blinking the smoke out of his clear, blue eyes. “A week, not a day more. I’ll need to get back across to South Korea before catching a flight. I’m assuming your contact is still alive to get me through the border. I’ll be in Seoul to fly home by Wednesday. Will you make sure I can get in to see him?” he asked, an odd feeling of guilt welling up inside him. What happened to John was most likely his fault and it had gone so far now, would John even want to see him again.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take care of everything.” Mycroft replied setting his cup back down on the desk before him. “I’ll send you his files via phone and arrange for your flight. Are you sure you want to come back? According to your last update there were still several members of Moriarty's web still at large, including one Sebastian Moran.” 

He knew there was no use trying to dissuade his brother but he thought he might as well give it a shot. Lay the facts before him and let Sherlock make the final decision. “My man will be able to get you across, if you can be there before Wednesday, otherwise you may have to take a different transport.” 

Sebastian Moran, Sherlock had discovered, was as impossible to find as Moriarty and the only way he was likely going to find the man was to lure him out. Going home might just be what it would take.

“I’m sure. He needs to see me. You said Lestrade has seen him? That’s good. John likes Lestrade for reasons I can’t possibly understand. Tell him to keep going to see him until I return.”

“Very well.” Mycroft replied, “We’ll speak again when you’re back in the country.” With that he pulled his phone away and ended the call. Why was it Sherlock was always causing problems like this? Why couldn’t he be simple and stay out of trouble like normal people? 

Sighing, Mycroft went about making the necessary arrangements for his brother return. 

****

John was sitting up in his hospital bed as he mentally went over everything that had just happened. Apparently even security couldn’t keep his sister out of the room when she was angry. Harriet Watson was a storm to be reckoned with when she had come barging into his room, eyes red with tears and anger. She had then proceeded to yell at him for twenty minutes about how selfish he had been trying to take his own life. How she had been scared sick at the idea she would have to bury her younger brother. She then went on about how she couldn’t cope if she was all alone, and did he expect her to drink herself to death? Because that’s exactly what his death would make her do. 

He’d tried to speak to her, to assure her that he hadn’t been thinking about anything much when he’d downed the entire bottle of sedatives. Of course, she hadn’t let him get a word in. The whole twenty minutes she ranted at him until Harry had lost steam and simply started to cry. The guilt overwhelmed him at that moment and he wished he could travel back in time and prevent himself from even attempting the idiotic act.

Finally Harry couldn’t stand it any longer and rushed out of the room past several other patients and visitors. John was certain she was rushing off to find a stiff drink to drown her sorrow in.

Greg had attempted to visit John the next day but whatever clout his position had given him the day before wasn’t going to get him past hospital regulations. He’d wanted to go to John right away the next day but he still had a job that required more attention than it ever had before. He’d actually considered bringing the man flowers to brighten up his room but decided that was far too cliche. Instead he had a box of fish and chips tucked in his hands. Maybe if he kept bringing food, John would put back on some of the weight he’d lost.

It was so strange to be led into the locked ward to see John Watson. He’d always assumed if he’d ever be visiting anyone there it would be Sherlock. The nurse left him at the door to the man’s room and he stood there for a moment, staring at John’s slumped and defeated back. Everything was backwards. John Watson was far too strong to ever look like that.

“Hey,” he called out gently, attempting a smile when John turned to look at him. The hospital grays around the man’s shoulders making him look even more drawn. “How are you?” He stepped into the room, settling himself on the bed beside John. “I brought you some real food,” he offered, holding out the box and chuckling weakly.

John was so lost in thought that he barely heard Lestrade talking to him. What woke him out of his daze was the smell of fish and chips. He’d been so wrapped up in self hatred that he hadn’t eaten in several days. It was a surprise he could even lift his head but he did and turned it directly towards Greg who was sitting down on the bed beside him. 

He gave a tight smile trying his best to seem chipper after the one sided argument he’d just had with his sister. 

“Feel like rubbish,” he admitted, taking the box from Greg and setting it on his lap. “But that’s my own fault I suppose.” 

Flipping open the lid, John inspected the fish and chips. His stomach grumbling at the sight of food that hadn’t been mashed to bits. “I’m just glad you didn’t get peas too, don’t think I could stomach anything with that consistency.” 

Chuckling softly, Greg stole a fry from the box. “I’ll bring you something every time I come if you’re going to eat it,” he murmured, bumping John’s shoulder with his own. “I saw your sister outside, keeping some tobacco company very happy. I think I managed to calm her down a bit, told her I knew you’d come around soon.” He glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes, silently asking John if he’d made a liar out of himself.

“Anyway, she said she’d be back in a couple of days. Might be for the best. You’ll get real clothes in a couple of days. I’ll stop by Baker Street and pick you up something. At least then you’ll look a bit more like yourself, even if you don’t feel it yet.” 

Greg kept his tone completely neutral, like he was talking about the weather or a football match, not wanting to come off as too pitying. “What did your doctor say?”

John’s self control had gone out the window as he dug into the box eagerly. He was chewing on a piece of fish as he listened to Greg talk about Harry. It was most certainly for the best that his sister not return for a few days. He didn’t think he could take another reprimand if he was to get better. 

“Harry’s just worried about me.” he sighed, shoulders slouching as he wiped a greasy hand on his hospital trousers. “It’s certainly a change, though I’m not sure I like it all that much.” he was worried that once she collected herself she would be back in full force to mother him. The idea sent a chill down his back. “Anyway, thanks for that.” 

He picked up a few fries before offering for Greg to share the meal with him. “Doctor says I’m still a risk to myself. So naturally they’ve taken everything sharp out of my room, even long amounts of fabric in case I get the absurd illusion that I might be able to hang myself. Though from what I have no clue.” he shook his head at the idea, “I’m not an idiot. At least...I fancy myself less of an idiot then those who believe they can cut off their own airway.” he pondered the words as they came out. Usually he was so guarded when discussing things like this, but for some reason it felt easier talking to Lestrade about it. Like somehow the man beside him had gone through something similar. 

“Don’t think I’ll be released anytime soon.” 

There was nothing elegant about watching John dive into the box of food but for Greg it was a thing of beauty. At least until John mentioned that it would be awhile before he was released. As casual as John was about it, it seemed to drain some of the life out of the older man. Swallowing against the lump that grew in his throat, Greg shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to another fry. 

“You have no idea how much better you sound already, John. You can get out of here as quickly as you want to, as soon as you decide that there’s something worth living for out there.” 

Sitting as they were, neither man was really looking at one another, just staring out the window at the large elm outside. It was easier than having to face John with what was going through his head. 

“Speaking of getting out of here, how would you like a little fresh air? Having a detective as a friend has a few perks. I managed to convince the charge nurse that I wouldn’t let you throw yourself in front of traffic for ten minutes. I told her you could use a fag,” he added, having seen half a dozen inpatients in bathrobes outside the doors to the psychiatric wing. 

John was a doctor, he knew that the only way he was going to get out of this ward was if he could convince the Doctors in charge that he was well enough to lead a normal life, that he had no intention of killing himself. But even that was easier said than done. He still felt the hole in his heart, that numb ache that made him want to rush off to sign up for the military again. Too bad they would never take him back. Then there was the fact he was a Doctor as well which caused problems. He would most likely have his license revoked for this. 

The thoughts caused his stomach to drop and his appetite to disappear. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe he was meant to stay here. If his continued existence brought happiness to others then he supposed he could continue living, even if it was, as a shell of his former self. 

He closed the box and set it on the plain table beside the bed. “I could use some fresh air.” he admitted, standing up and shuffling to a chair which held a bathrobe perfectly folded. Picking it up, John shrugged the garment over his shoulders. It wasn’t fashionable like Sherlock’s silk robe, more of an over washed lump of balled up fleece but it was enough. He wasn’t exactly hoping to go out looking his best, he was in hospital after all. 

Greg noticed the change in John and wanted to ask the man what he was thinking of but he knew it wasn’t the time yet. “Well, come on then,” he said, hauling himself to his feet. “You might not need a smoke but I could use one,” he murmured as he led John to the entrance to the ward. “Don’t give me that look,” he added, glancing at John from the corner of his eyes. “I haven’t smoked in two years until a couple of days ago. Thanks for that.” He gave John a little nudge with his elbow, pulling out his cigarettes as he waited for the door to be unlocked.

The admission that Greg had started smoking again came as a shock to John. He had thought the DI had more self control but then he had thought himself perfectly stable as well. The look he gave Lestrade passed quickly enough as he understood the need for some sort of relief. Once again the nagging guilt snuck up on him. 

“You started again because of me.” he muttered as the door clicked in front of them and an orderly waved them through. “Sorry about that.” 

They walked in silence down the remaining hallways, John silently contemplating if the smoking had anything to do with the comment Greg had made the previous day. Exiting the hospital they came to a courtyard filled with several other patients. Most were chain smoking, a couple was walking about with people who appeared to be relatives and one particular gentleman seemed to be having a deep conversation with a tree. God, had he sunk so low that he was now pulling others down with him. 

“I’m not going to mention the obvious health risks with smoking.” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Instead I’m going to remind you that people don’t like kissing an ashtray.” 

Greg was about to make a quip about how he’d quit once and he could quit again when John mentally slapped him silly. What on earth could possess the man to make a comment about someone kissing him?

The cigarette he’d perched between his lips drooped and he paused just outside the doors to the hospital. Slowly he pulled it from his lips, giving John an odd smirk. “I’m divorced, remember? Don’t have time or opportunity for much kissing anymore. Now why did you bring that particular argument up?” he asked, smirking and nodding towards a bench that was under the tree he’d seen from John’s window. In spite of what he’d said, Greg slid the unlit smoke back into the pack and tucked them away in his pocket.

John made his way towards the bench, his limp more prominent now that he was outside and had room to walk with purpose. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had brought up the subject, it just seemed like something he would have said to Sherlock had the man still been alive...and smoking. Not that Sherlock had ever cared much about kissing.

“Just because you’re divorced doesn’t mean you can’t kiss someone.” John explained, “I’m just stating the facts as I see them. I know personally I don’t care for smokers because of the taste and plenty of people would agree with me.” 

Lestrade could feel his cheeks heating a little confused about where this conversation was heading. He liked John, a lot, but regardless of all the innuendo surrounding the man and Sherlock, there had never been any indication the man was anything but heterosexual.

“Are we getting personal, John?” he asked before his brain had a chance to catch up with his mouth, his own eyes growing wide at the implications that could be taken from that simple phrase.

Just as John’s steel blue-grey eyes turned up to meet his and Greg was certain that he was going to have to both figure out and explain what he meant, the smaller man stumbled. For a moment he was relieved at not having to go into it any deeper until he realized that his arms were wrapped firmly around John’s waist, the perfectly fitting body tucked right against him. Very slowly he pulled back, though his arms remained locked around the smaller body for support.

“Easy there. Are you alright?” he asked, praying that his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.

The damned pathway had curved drastically and as John was so shocked by Lestrade’s question he had little time to adjust his limp. Instead he started falling forward, hands out in front of him to block the pavement and protect the rest of him. But before he hit the ground he felt strong arms wrap around his torso and pull him back. 

They stood there for several moments, both men blushing furious shades of red but not moving. It took John’s brain too long to realize what the situation must look like and he stood up straight and spun around. Unfortunately the bathrobe didn’t spin fast enough to catch up and instead wrapped around his legs the other way causing him to more or less fall forward into Greg Lestrade’s chest. His full weight sent forward ended up being far too much for the shocked DI and the two ended up sprawled out on the ground. 

Of course John's fall wasn’t all that painful as he fell directly onto Greg instead of pavement. Immediately he lifted himself up on his arms and looked down at the man beneath him. “Sorry...” he said, blush rising again, “You alright?” 

_“I’m really not sure,”_ Greg thought to himself, though it had nothing to do with physical discomfort. It was entirely to do with how it felt to have John on top of him. They both were so alone now and he didn’t want that information to confuse the situation. But now that the idea of seeing John in a different light had been planted, it was hard to ignore.

“Yeah... yeah, I’m fine. Your leg?” he asked, his hand reaching out without his permission and gripping the man’s hip. “I uh... let’s get you up,” he murmured, guiding John off him enough that he could get to his feet. As he pulled John up with him it was even more evident just how much weight the man had lost. “Come here,” he ordered gently, gathering John back into his arms and helping him the rest of the way to the bench. When he sat it was even closer than he’d been on the bed before. He knew he should say something but he had no idea what. How could he ask an incredibly confused and fragile man what had just happened?

“I’m...sorry if... uh. Sometimes it’s just nice to feel close to someone again,” he murmured, looking away and blushing furiously.

Allowing himself to be guided to the bench, John took a seat and stared out at the grass in front of them. He wasn’t sure what had just happened but it was obvious they were both uncomfortable with the situation. He told himself that it was normal, that any heterosexual man could be curious as his mind thought of Greg being something more to him then a friend, but quickly dismissed the idea. His one remaining friend and he was fantasizing about some weird relationship that involved touching and...he shook the thought from his head and pursed his lips. What the hell had just happened?!

“Right.” he didn’t know what to say or how to respond to the other man. This was all new to him. Well...not new, he had felt this way about Sherlock once but he had thought that was a one time thing. That his feelings for Sherlock were specifically for that man, not for the male side of it since he still liked women. Now he was confused. 

There was more silence before he turned to Greg. “What is this?” 

Lestrade met John’s gaze for a moment before turning his eyes away again and rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his head starting to swim with the suddenness of it all. It wasn’t fair to John to put any more pressure on him. “I don’t think knowing what, is all that important right now. Just know that... I’m here for you.”

Sitting back, Greg hesitated for a moment before resting his arm along the bench behind John, waiting for the man to sit back as well before resting his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Whatever you want, I’ll be here to help you through this. I’ve lost plenty in the past year and I’m not adding you to that list.”

John wasn’t sure what was going on. Greg’s body language wasn’t telling him much other than the fact they were both feeling the same way. His hand stretching out behind John like they were preteens in a dark movie theatre. He smiled at the thought, this was actually happening. He was actually hearing Greg Lestrade saying that he cared about a beat up military doctor as something more than friends. Even if he couldn’t go as far as to say the DI was asking him out, there was definitely something different about this conversation and by extension their relationship. 

He let himself relax back on the bench wondering if caring about someone else, if getting involved, would take his mind off Sherlock permanently. It was certainly a nice thought but he wasn’t shallow enough to lead Greg on just for the sake of his own sanity, not after hearing about all the things the other man had lost that year. 

But for now the hand on his shoulder was a comfort, something that helped numb the empty feelings inside. 

“I think...” he paused for a moment then grinned, “I think if you could bring some tea tomorrow it would be the most helpful thing.” 

Greg couldn’t help the wide grin that crossed his face and he quickly turned his face away to hide it. This had been such a hard year and finally, something felt just a bit right with his life. It was insane that it had to come in the wake of John’s crisis but maybe, just maybe this would end up being a good thing for both of them.

“Tea it is,” he murmured softly, turning back to John, still smiling.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before the conversation had started again. They chatted a bit about inconsequential topics for a while before heading back inside. Greg had politely suggested they finish off the fish and chips, mostly wanting to make sure John would keep eating. When it was finally time for him to leave he didn’t make any kind of overtly romantic display, just simply rested his hand on John’s head and smoothed it over the shortcut locks. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he assured, trying not to let his stomach drop when he saw the realization in John’s eyes that he was once again stuck alone in this literal madhouse. “Try to relax. I’ll bring you some things to keep you occupied. I know you won’t be here long, John. You’re depressed, not nutters.”

****

After the plane had reached cruising altitude, Sherlock opened his laptop and retrieved his emails. One of the things about modern technology he was thankful for was internet on flights. At least he wouldn’t be bored. 

He managed, only just to set up the man he’d been looking for and who was now marked as a spy, likely to be executed. It hadn’t been as easy as it should have been though. A portion of his far too clever brain had been distracted. John was in the hospital, _his_ John. His John had tried to kill himself.

The first email from Mycroft was John’s admittance report and he’d poured over it in great detail. There was nothing there that answered his questions though, namely, why? And was this his fault?

As he opened the next email, Sherlock felt a small smile pull at his mouth. Sometimes it was good for your brother to be big brother.

_John seems improved. Didn’t have to tell Lestrade to keep visiting. Seems to have kept that up on his own. Thought you might like to see how things are progressing._

_~Mycroft_

Downloading the files, Sherlock saw half a dozen images and a few CCTV footage videos. His smile lingered only for a moment when he opened the first file. John didn’t look depressed, he was smiling and sipping on what looked like a tea from his favorite shop, Lestrade sitting very close to him on the long bench. There was a set of three shots, John in his room, looking lonely and drawn. Then his face lit up for some reason that couldn’t be seen in the shot but was revealed to be Lestrade as the next picture showed them embracing.

It wouldn’t have taken eyes as keen as his to understand what he was seeing but part of him simply refused to believe so he watched. He watched Lestrade reach out and take John’s hand as they walked outside, watched John smile as Lestrade sat down beside him to watch a football game in the hospital common room, watched Lestrade’s arm fall around his John’s shoulder and both of them blush. He watched and looked again and again and again throughout most of his sixteen hour flight.


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John proves he can swear like a sailor.

Since the very first day he had been admitted to the hospital, John had seen Greg Lestrade nearly every day. Though neither really knew what was happening, they seemed at ease in the other's company. The day after the awkward little mishap and John’s damn leg acting up, Greg had returned with a piping hot Earl Grey tea for John. That gesture went miles for the otherwise distressed doctor and the strangeness of the previous day seemed to dissipate. It didn’t take long for the awkwardness of the situation to pass as both men once again became comfortable around each other. 

It had been just over a week now since he had been committed and John was showing signs of improvement on a personal level. He had been eating regularly and had even started falling back into routine; well, as much of a routine as one could have being locked up most of the time. He’d started listening in on the group sessions with the other patients, hearing their stories and firsthand accounts of suffering. Though he would never share his thoughts on Sherlock and the mundane life he’d found himself to be living after his best friend's death. 

He knew he was lucky to survive the attempt and come out the other side with no physical injury. John was aware of first hand accounts in which people had become brain dead from an attempted suicide. He’d seen the effect it had on a patient's family and the price of permanent healthcare. He thanked the heavens he had managed to pull through relatively unharmed even if his bank account hadn’t. 

His private sessions however weren’t going as well. The fact he wasn’t willing to share what was bothering him had caused the psychiatric doctor to distrust him. The fact he was a doctor himself didn’t help as they were suspicious he was only telling them what they wanted to hear. So after several private sessions of getting nowhere they had sent him into group sessions with the hope other experiences might make him more open to talking.

Unfortunately, John only became more guarded among the group. Never willing to share when it came to him, instead passing to the teenage girl in black make up who always seemed to be staring at him. The only person he was able to more or less open up to was Lestrade. Greg had gone through the same thing and understood where John was coming from, even if he didn’t agree with his coping methods. He was so relieved to see the DI each day (after Greg finished work of course) that his mood frequently changed in his company. 

John felt the reason for this was Greg was still willing to view him as a human being rather than a charity case. Greg still saw the same man who had helped solve cases, who had fought and served his country. He felt more like himself, like everything might be alright if he had Greg’s friendship. 

Then he started thinking about the feelings that seemed to erupt in his stomach every time they returned to the bench outside for fresh air. That single memory started to infect his thoughts and having nothing else to concentrate on John, found himself frequently analyzing what had happened.It was during his sixth day in hospital that John finally worked up the courage to act on his feelings. 

Greg had returned like always to the hospital with a tea from John’s favorite shop and they were sitting beside each other on the bench watching the other patients walking by. Waiting till Greg was focused on someone else and looking away, John slipped his hand into the Inspector's, intertwining their fingers. He sat there, not saying a word about it as he sipped his tea. Maybe he would be able to give up Sherlock. It had been two years since the consulting detective's death, surely it was time to move on. Hell, he wasn’t getting any younger. 

Surprised by the sudden warmth in his fingers, Greg looked down at his hand, John’s fingers now entwined in his. A contented smile spread across his lips and he gave the appendages a gentle squeeze, just a reminder to John the gesture was welcome.

It had been hard not to demand that they figure this out immediately but he’d managed to, as far as he could tell, put absolutely no pressure on John one way or the other. There were still far more important matters to deal with.

“John,” he murmured softly, his thumb beginning to move along John’s. “You have to start talking to your doctor. You don’t belong in this place, not really. But they’ll keep you for however long they want to if you don’t start opening up. Why is it so much easier to tell it to me? I’ll always listen, John, but the doctor is the one holding your leash.” He dragged his free hand through his hair and sighed. “Maybe I’m just not understanding. Do you want to be here right now? I know you’re having problems but is this really the best place for you?”

John frowned, “How am I supposed to explain to them what’s going on when I’m not even sure.” He had tried to sort things out before and just ended up confusing himself. After Sherlock’s funeral he had done everything in his power to prove his friend had never died. But months of denial had led him nowhere. “How am I supposed to explain to them what I’ve been through. Lord knows they’d lock me up for good if they heard everything I had to say.” 

He set the tea down as his left hand started to tremble. Clenching his fist several times, he tried to calm his nerves. “I don’t want to be here but I’ve tried this before, talking to a therapist...I just don’t want to talk about my feelings.” he squeezed the hand in Greg’s, looking down at them. “It’s easier to talk to you because you know what happened. You know what it’s like to be in the battlefield and then thrown back into a normal life. I-I’m just not meant for this kind of lifestyle. And to go from the excitement back to the mundane--I just...I don’t know if I can.” 

Setting aside his tea, Greg’s hand quickly found John’s other hand, pulling them together so he could hold them both. John’s answer scared him. If John couldn’t make it what kind of hope was there for him, for anyone.

“John, you’re not the only one who lost him. You’re not the only keeper he’s ever had either. I know what you’re going through and I know what it’s like to live in the normal world after you’ve experienced Sherlock, but it’s not as empty as you think it is.” His tone was low, a whisper in John’s ear like some conspiratorial eavesdropper might be listening, because really this was just for John. He also was worried that his voice would break if he spoke any louder. It was so selfish but he needed John to get better, for his own sanity.

“John, there are a million amazing things out there for someone like you. You want something different, then travel the world. Your skills could take you anywhere. If you want to stay here, then come over and help me with cases, something, anything. What Sherlock couldn’t possibly understand is how interconnected we all are. He didn’t understand how you would unravel when he killed himself. John...you... when I saw you on that bathroom floor... I thought... I was afraid for you and for me. If you died how the hell was I ever supposed to forgive myself? If you just stagnate in here, what am I...”

Heaving a sigh, Greg pulled his hands away, dragging them over his hair and resting his weight on his knees. “God, I don’t know why you want to talk to me. I’m complete rubbish at this,” he sighed. “I just...want you to get better. I want you out of here so we can go have a beer and watch a footie match and have a good laugh about what a nutter Sherlock was. Because I’m completely selfish... Fuck, I’m sorry. Just...you talk, I’ll listen. It’s better that way.”

“I cared about him,” John admitted, “More than I thought I would. Everything in my life just seemed to fit together finally. When I was with Sherlock...I...” he felt the tears welling up once more, the ones he had been trying his best to keep away. “I felt useful. I thought Sherlock thought I was special, always wanting to know my opinion and never calling me an idiot...well he did but whenever it came from him it felt as if he was being affectionate about it.”

He wiped at his eyes hoping to stem the tears. It felt like there was a lump in his throat and he was having a hard time swallowing past it. 

“Greg..” he took a deep breath before turning. “I want to get past Sherlock. I want to have a relationship without always worrying that I’ll be thinking of someone else. I just...I’m sorry Greg. I do want the same thing. I do want to have a normal life and be satisfied with it, to go to the pub and not be interested in who killed who....maybe I should just agree to take the medication they want to put me on. Maybe it would help...”

Sitting straight up, Greg gathered John into his arms, not holding him too tightly but offering some kind of support. “It may, it may not. You’re a doctor, John. What would you say to a patient who was refusing medication? What would you say to a patient who didn’t explain symptoms they were experiencing? I don’t know about any of that or what’s right for your treatment. I just know that he would want you to let him go, John. He was as self centered as they come but he would never want you agonizing over him like this. He’s gone, John. He’s gone and nothing in the world can bring him back to either of us. You told me you didn’t really want to die, so you’ve got to just... try. Just keep trying. Find something worth living for day to day. A normal life isn’t so bad, and it’s not nearly as boring as Sherlock seemed to think.”

Using the sleeve of his shirt, Greg tenderly wiped John’s face, his stomach sinking as what John said fully registered in his brain. He could never be anything like Sherlock. It wasn’t in him; it wasn’t in most people. And John was worried that he’d be thinking of Sherlock when someone else was with him? No wonder John was so depressed, who could never compare with Sherlock Holmes?

“I guess for all that people used to joke about it, I’d never realized that you were so in love with him,” he murmured softly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, John. I really am.”

Truth be told, John would do what any self respecting Doctor would do with a difficult patient. He would try his best to convince them that the medication he was prescribing would only benefit them. What John really wanted though, was a stiff drink to top up his tea. Something that would numb him and just get him through the day as quick as possible. But he knew drinking wasn’t the answer, Harry had proved that to him countless times and he was surprised by the realization that he had sunk to that same level, even after all the support he had given his sister to fight her addiction. He felt like a hypocrite. 

“I’m not in love with him.” he said quickly without thinking. It was an automatic response that he always had ready for when people asked about the true nature of his and Sherlock’s relationship. But now he wasn’t so sure it was true. “No...I’m not in love with him anymore.” he corrected himself with a sniffle. 

He was beyond wanting Sherlock to be alive. John knew the detective was never coming back and that it was pointless to hope. This was something he had started to come to terms with when he had intentionally overdosed. Waking up had brought about the revelation that he would have to continue on alone. At first it felt like a monumental task to even exist but as the days progressed, he had started to feel his heart’s hold on Sherlock beginning to lessen. No one would ever replace the younger Holmes but John felt that if he could at least forget about the pain he might be able to live a relatively normal life. 

John sat in Greg’s arms, gazing out at the courtyard. He had come to a decision, one he hoped would end with at least a small amount of happiness. One that might end in watching football or rugby over the telly. 

“I’m going to let him go.” he whispered, staring at nothing in particular. “I’m going to let his memory fade to the back of my mind and move on with my life.” 

Greg didn’t say anything at first, just gently pulled John’s head against his shoulder. He smoothed his hand up and down John’s arm, wondering if either of them would be able to. The thing with having a man like Sherlock storm into your life, like he had with Lestrade six years ago, was that he left such a mark.

“You will be okay, John,” he whispered, teasing his fingers through the hair on the back of the man’s neck. “You’ll eventually get to the place where it doesn’t hurt so badly to think about him. Most people live a Sherlock free life. We were lucky to have known him as much as we did... even if it didn’t always seem that way at the time. Little bastard could drive you round the bend sometimes,” he joked with a short chuckle.

John let himself be pulled closer to Lestrade. It was different being on the receiving end like this as he’d always been the one to comfort and hold his significant other. He was glad to have someone care enough about him to even bother and couldn’t help turn his head to watch Greg laugh. 

There was something about the Inspector that drew John in. His calming manner, his attempts at humor, the fact he cared about the rest of the world. It was almost refreshing to have someone like that in John’s life. Before he even knew what he was doing John had reached a hand out to touch the other man’s cheek. He gently turned Greg’s face so they were looking at each other. 

“Thank you.” he said giving a small smile, “For all of this.”

It didn’t take a mind reader to tell from the way John had touched him that the man wanted more. Even though half of his brain was screaming at him not to, Lestrade couldn’t help leaning in. He hesitated for just long enough to register John’s warm breath against his lips before closing the rest of the distance. The kiss was chaste and soft but still full of passion and tenderness. To Greg it was nearly the perfect first kiss. The only thing that could have made it better was if there hadn’t been drying tears on the other man’s cheeks and they were on his couch relaxing, not a bench in public.

After their lips parted, Greg couldn’t bring himself to pull back, gently pulling first John’s upper lip between his own and then the bottom before resting their foreheads together.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, holding John just a little tighter, “but I’m not sorry I did. Even if we don’t pan out, I won’t be sorry. I just wouldn’t want to push myself on you when you’re vulnerable like this. You know that, right?”

It was perfect which was something new to John. He’d never had a first kiss go so well, usually he bumped foreheads with the other person or the noses got in the way and one of them would have to adjust. With Greg it was different, it was simpler and easier. All he had to do was lean into the other man, open his mouth slightly and fall into the feelings of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He was almost sorry Lestrade pulled back but not sorry enough to know that they were doing this in public and he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that yet. Especially when the eyes staring at them were his fellow patients. 

Resting his forehead against Greg’s John licked his bottom lip. There was the taste of tea but also the mild flavor of ash and John couldn’t help the grin that spread over his lips as he remembered the conversation they’d had previously that week. 

“If it was wrong,” he started, trying to figure out the words to voice his feelings. “I would have told you.” 

Letting out a relieved chuckle, Greg nuzzled against John’s temple. If he was a cat he would have been purring like a motor. “I’ve never wanted to be with a man before, John. It’s very strange to be thinking about stealing you away so I can take you home and do terrible things to you. But it does feel right. And I really want to kiss you again, but I think we’d better wait because if I kiss you again I’m going to end up snogging you right here on this bench and I don’t think either of us are ready for that.”

Before he pulled back he pressed a quick kiss to the back of John’s jaw, smiling when he sat back enough to see John’s face. Now he wondered how he could have ever missed how attractive John was before. Those steely grey eyes were so deep you could get lost in them and he tried to remember what they’d looked like before all of this, when John was really happy.

“I think we’ve gone past visiting hours, again,” he murmured, wrapping his arms tighter around John with no intention of getting up just yet. “I don’t think the nurses are going to like me much if we keep this up. Not that I really care.”

Kissing another man was not something John had ever thought he would like. He had spent most of his life telling people he wasn’t gay, even if they didn’t believe him, and now he was kissing another man and had actually enjoyed it. To hear Greg talk of stealing him away and snogging him senseless gave John a sense of purpose. Someone still found him attractive enough even after all the cutting and drinking and failed attempts at killing himself. 

Immediately upon remember these details he felt self conscious. He hadn’t shown Greg the cuts on his arms since most of the time he hid them beneath a jumper or long sleeved shirt. His smile faltered at the idea of telling his new...his new what exactly? Was there a title for what was going between them? 

“Greg,” he brought his hands down and to his lap wondering if he should tell him or just show him. The idea that Greg might turn him away after finding out about the cuts was worrisome but then, if Greg had access to his personal hospital reports then he was sure to know about the cutting. “I know you’re worried about me. Believe me, I was worried for some time as well. I did some stupid things, selfish things and if this is going to work out then you have to know.” he bit his lip as one hand drew back the bathrobe from his arm and displayed the obvious incisions. “I thought that if I felt physical pain it might numb the pain inside. I only did it a few times but the scars will probably stay forever.” he looked down at the raised marks along his skin. 

For the thousandth time, Greg felt overwhelming guilt for not having been there for John before, for not having realized just how badly the man was self destructing. His thumb brushed gently along the marks as he observed them silently for a long minute.

“Everyone has scars, John,” he murmured, lifting his eyes back to the younger man’s. “If you’re worried this changes anything then don’t. Everyone has a past and I don’t give a shit about what’s happened. I just don’t want to see more. If this is behind you then they’re just scars to me.”

Leaving one hand on John’s arm, Lestrade fished into his pocket and pulled out the half pack of smokes from his pocket, holding them up for John to see. “I’ll never smoke another cigarette again if you tell me you’re done with hurting yourself like this.” He lobbed the pack into a nearby bin for emphasis before returning the hand to the back of John’s head, running his fingers through the short, blond hair. “You don’t need this. You survived a war, you don’t need this to feel alive. You are alive, you’re right here, with me.”

And even though he said he wouldn’t he leaned in and captured John’s lips again, this kiss even better as he let his tongue flick against the firm, upper lip and he tasted John for the first time.

It was all John could do not to pounce on the man kissing him. Greg was right, he had survived a war, he could very well survive the death of one Sherlock Holmes. They hadn’t even been involved at the time of Sherlock’s death and he had still allowed the man enough power over him to make John feel helpless after. 

Once again feeling stupid, he kissed Lestrade back in earnest. The thrill of a changing relationship bringing his blood to boil as he pressed against Greg’s lips. A few more seconds of intense snogging and he pulled back flushed, eyes darting around to see if any of the nurses were coming to collect him. 

“Alright. If you keep off the cigarettes I think I can manage to keep my end of the deal.” he flashed a smile before standing up. If only he had his cane then he wouldn’t feel so unsteady. “Come on then. Put me back under house arrest before they march out and demand I be tied to the bed again.” 

Chuckling morosely at the thought, Greg helped John to his feet. “They ever put you in restraints again I’ll have something to say about it,” he grumbled, pulling John’s arm over his shoulder so they could head back inside. 

“I’m yours, John, but I want you to really think about what you want now. No, don’t say anything now. I mean it. Other than the one you just made I don’t want any commitments from you, not yet. You don’t owe me a thing and for my sake I want you healthy and certain before we talk about where we go with us. I’ll still be here.”

As they stood before the door to the locked unit, Greg pulled John back against him. “Just focus on you. Don’t worry about me. I’m always fine.”

****

Mycroft stood on the tarmac of the private airfield watching as the finally necessities were hooked up to the plane his younger sibling was arriving on. He had hoped to skip right to the chase with Sherlock and forgo what he could only assumed to be a much bigger headache. 

Since the last update had been sent to his brother, Mycroft had come across some rather startling, if not interesting information. The new development between DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson had been amusing to hear of but he felt it may cause problems now that his brother was back on British soil. If only he had waited a week before contacting Sherlock, then perhaps he could have saved him the trouble of a 16 hour flight. 

Staring grimly at the plane, he waited until the door was opened before leaning against his umbrella with an air of casualness. John Watson may have a cane but when it came to standing, Mycroft much preferred his stylish accessory. There was a flash of dark clothing as his brother finally exited the aircraft and made his way over to the man known as the British Government. 

Sherlock made no move to embrace his brother, even though they hadn’t seen one another for months. It would have been an uncalled for display of affection that neither of them felt.

“Mycroft. I’m surprised to see you here. I thought if I warranted retrieval at all you would have sent your blackberry addicted assistant,” he drawled, stretching out his long body. “You’ve put on weight,” he added, heading towards the black car. 

“How’s John? Is he still in the hospital?” Sherlock asked, switching back to the fixation he’d been mired in for the duration of his flight. “I can’t believe Lestrade is actually putting his hero complex to work on John. It’s so predictable and mundane. They barely even know one another.”

Ah yes, the formalities of family reunions, the required ten seconds of pleasantness followed by the minute of Sherlock pointing out Mycroft’s sweet tooth was once again in charge of his diet. He chose to ignore the comment knowing there would be several more occasions where his younger brother would remind him of such things and it was best not to play into his hand. Right now he was trying to come up with the best way to explain to Sherlock the new footage the CCTV’s had picked up from the hospital courtyard.

“I decided to see to your safe arrival personally,” Mycroft stated as the door to the black car was opened for him and he climbed into the back seat. “There have been some developments since we last spoke which I feel are of a more delicate manner.” 

He waited till Sherlock was in the car with him before opening his briefcase and pulling out a folder. He passed this to Sherlock and waited patiently knowing it would only take a few minutes for his younger sibling to review the provided information. 

“Stop being melodramatic, Mycroft, it’s boring,” Sherlock sighed, taking the folder, rather enjoying falling back into the usual back and forth with his brother. He had another quip on his tongue but it died as he cast his eyes on the first glossy photo. John was cupping Lestrade’s cheek. But John was supposed to be _his_ friend. What he’d seen on the plane, he'd been able to dismiss easily enough, though the uncomfortable feeling of jealousy over being replaced had stuck with him for the entire flight.

He quickly flipped to the next picture, his mouth going dry as he gaped at the two men kissing. The pictures told the story, touching, sitting close, more kissing. This he hadn’t expected, mostly because he had never expected Lestrade to actually have the balls to act on his feelings. This wasn’t as easy to dismiss. He was supposed to return and take John back to Baker Street and they’d go back to how it had been before. How on earth would Lestrade fit into that equation?

“When...” he started before realizing the pictures were all time stamped. Even his skills of observation were slipping already. “It doesn’t matter,” he announced, for himself as well as Mycroft. “When John sees me he’ll forget about Lestrade. I know he missed me.”

Mycroft hadn’t bothered to watch his brother look through the contents of the folder. He knew all that was within it and preferred to give his brother a moment to gather his wits. Even the great Sherlock Holmes hadn’t expected something like this. When Mycroft had first seen them he thought someone had gone and tampered with the film, a little joke about the good Doctor but after investigating he found no evidence of such a thing happening. That was in fact John Watson kissing DI Lestrade. 

He knew his brother wouldn’t be prepared for the emotions attached to the obvious fact his pet had moved on but when Sherlock spoke of taking John from Lestrade he couldn’t help frown. 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked, turning to look over his brother’s face, “With what Doctor Watson has recently gone through do you think it’s best to uproot him? Not only did he attempt to take his own life but it seems in the process of recovering he’s managed to find someone to help him resolve his apparent issues.” he tilted his head to the side and smirked, “Issues you created.”

Sherlock would usually be the first to admit that he really didn’t have the skills necessary to help John recover from emotional trauma but right then he couldn’t see past losing John; to Lestrade of all people. “I left for them, for both of them, to keep them safe. John will understand. If my supposed death was the cause of his problems then my return will put it right. He doesn’t need Lestrade sticking his tongue down his throat!” he huffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest like a petulant child. “He just needs me. He just needs to go home.”

In the back of his mind Sherlock could hear all the ways this could go sideways on him but that changed nothing. He and John were a team and Lestrade shouldn’t be putting his hands on him, touching him... John was his.

Just as he realized what he was thinking he looked up to see Mycroft looking at him with that horrendous, knowing expression he’d given Sherlock a million times before. “What? It’s true. John needs to be dragged into a relationship right now about as much as he needs another vial of sedatives. I can solve this.”

“I agree but do you believe coming back from the dead will have positive ramifications?” Mycroft asked, picking at a piece of invisible lint. “You may end up making things worse for John. Regardless of how you feel personally about the man, you have to consider what is best for him.” 

The eldest Holmes brother knew how his brother was feeling even if Sherlock didn’t wish to divulge the information. When Sherlock had still been alive to the world he had watched the relationship between his brother and the good Doctor develop. Even if he was oblivious to his own feelings there was more than enough evidence to say John felt the same. 

“I’m warning you not to be selfish little brother,” he continued, “for the sake of John’s health you should reconsider. That is, if you care about his health at all.” 

Sherlock didn’t give the file back to Mycroft, huffing and turning to look out the window, his arms crossed firmly across his chest. Of course he cared about John’s health, that was why he was back. He was convinced that Mycroft just didn’t understand. John would be alright, as soon as he could explain why he’d had to leave, everything would be alright again. 

****

Ten days after Greg had kissed him, John finally agreed to take the medication the doctors wished to prescribe for him. It was strange to be on the other side, taking the drugs when most of his life he had been the one handing them out but it was a compromise he was willing to make for a quicker release.

Rubbing at his bleary eyes he gazed across at the small window covered with bars. It still felt like a prison sentence but Lestrade was right, he’d survived a war, he could survive a hospital stay too, even if it was for several unpleasant weeks. 

Returning to the bed he went back to laying down. He was feeling dizzy and his eyes just didn’t want to stay open. Unused to medication he let his eyes fall shut to stop the room spinning and found his body starting to calm down. Greg wouldn’t be by till later, a new case having crept up on him the previous day, so there was no need for John not to give in to his body's demand for rest.

Sherlock followed the nurse down the hall, his usual confidence somewhat diminished when faced with the reality of where John had been put. 

“He seems to be doing better. That nice detective has been here everyday and his sister and the older woman come in often too,” the nurse explained, leading Sherlock down the hall toward John’s room. “He’s on medication now so he’s been very tired but his body should finish adjusting in a few days at the most. We still ask you to do your best not to work him up. He and his sister seem to get into it nearly every time she’s here.”

Sherlock waited as the nurse held up a finger, standing in the doorway of John’s room. “He might be sleeping,” she murmured rapping on John’s door. “Doctor Watson, are you awake? You have a visitor.”

This was it, still Sherlock was sure that this was what was best. John would see him and they’d talk. In a few days, John would be released and they could get back to life. As far as Lestrade went, John wouldn’t be so lonely now that he was back. If it was more than that he would consider taking a lover, as long as his work wouldn’t suffer. He’d never had much interest in it before but this was John and John was different.

He waited for the nurse to nod at him and move away before he stepped into the doorway. “John,” he murmured, pursing his lips as he took in the far too thin, worn looking man who had been his best friend. “You’re so thin. You should tell Mycroft what your secret is.”

He’d been drifting in and out of sleep when the voice of a nurse made John turnover in the bed. Greg was certainly early today, maybe his case hadn’t been as difficult as first predicted. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson had decided to return with the banana loaf she’d promised him. Scooting back in the bed, he brought himself up into a near sitting position, leaning against a propped up pillow. 

But when he turned to look at the doorway his heart nearly stopped. All the work he had put into forgetting the consulting detective over the past few days flooded the emotional gates in his mind and every mixed up feeling battled for dominance. 

Sherlock Holmes, his previously ‘dead’ flat mate, was standing in the doorway of his hospital room looking for all intents and purposes exactly like he had when John had last seen him. 

“Sher-” he couldn’t even say the name as his throat seemed to close up with overwhelming feelings. 

Blinking several times, he raised a hand and rubbed at his eyes again. Was he seeing things? Was this part of the side effects of the medication he was taking? His mind was too confused by what he was seeing to remember all the known side effects. 

When his voice finally returned to him he could do little else but whisper. “..-Sherlock?.”

For once it wasn’t simple for Sherlock to read what the man was thinking, feeling. John was usually about as easy to read as a children’s book but now he was suddenly unsure.

“Yes, John. Rumors of my death have been wildly exaggerated, though I’m afraid the ruse was intentional and for your benefit. It wasn’t intended to hurt you so much though,” he murmured striding slowly into the room and turning his eyes away from John. A colorful Mondrian paper print hung on the wall with tape, making Sherlock roll his eyes. “I see the good inspector has been attempting to liven up your room. Obviously his taste in art. You prefer impressionists. You had one as the backdrop on your laptop.”

Sherlock eyed the other two pictures up on the wall with equal disdain, clearly drawn by Lestrade’s children. One was a decent representation of a tree for a seven year old but the other was barely discernible scribbles in wax crayon.

“Pedestrian. He’s so...normal, how can you stand it?” Spinning on his heels, his coat swinging around him dramatically, Sherlock leveled John with his ice blue gaze. “I’ve moved back into Baker Street. It’s too quiet there without you,” he murmured in lieu of telling John how much he’d missed him.

John could feel the effect of the medication disappear as he stared wide eyed at the man who had just waltzed into his room. There was Sherlock walking around, making remarks as if nothing had happened, as if it was any other day and he hadn’t just come back from the dead. 

Reaching a hand out John pulled himself to the edge of the bed and stood up shakily. He raised a hand to grip the plastic cane the hospital had provided him with, eyes never leaving Sherlock. His gaze flashed over everything in a mock version of Sherlock’s own known technique. Same dark curls (maybe a bit longer than before), same woolen coat complete with dark blue scarf. How John wanted to pull on that scarf, see if it was real or if this was some sort of sick joke. 

Instead he limped forward till he was within a few centimeters of Sherlock. Why the hell was this happening now? Why had Sherlock chosen this moment to return? Why not before John had attempted to kill himself? 

His tongue darted out over his dry bottom lip, a sign he was deep in thought. “Sherlock.” he repeated, voice much more steady.

Their faces were so close and for a brief moment Sherlock could see why Greg and John seemed so fond of locking lips. This was very intimate.

“Yes, John. It’s me, I’m right here.” He hesitated for a moment before bringing out the big guns. “I’m sorry, John. I never meant to hurt you. If I hadn’t done what I did, if you hadn’t been in danger... You would have been killed if I hadn’t. John...” he whispered, holding the man’s gaze. 

John was fully prepared to listen. Fully prepared to hear the explanation for Sherlock faking his death, even as prepared to go as far as accepting the answer. What really pissed him off was the fact that Sherlock had decided to keep his fake death a secret for two years. John had near killed himself in an attempt to get over the spoiled detective.

And it was this thought that made his blood boil and his right fist tighten before it connected with the side of Sherlock’s face. 

“You bastard.” he shouted nearly falling over from the force behind the punch. “You let me believe you were dead! You let me think all this time that you were buried in the ground when you were running all over the place fucking avoiding me! Did you not think for once how I would feel?” He was red in the face with frustration as he yelled at the younger man, “You were dead! I saw you on the ground. I checked your pulse for fuck sake. What the hell were you-I-...No. No, no, no, I am not letting you do this to me. You are not allowed to do this to me Sherlock Holmes.” 

He was shaking with anger now, half of his brain screaming to hit the man in front of him again while the other half wanted to reach out and smother him in kisses. 

“What the fuck!?”

The former won out however and he started to hit the man, less force behind his attempts this time but enough that the frustration came out.

Throwing his hands up to protect himself, Sherlock grabbed a hold of his friend’s wrists. “John...John, I’m sorry. Moriarty’s man was going to kill you. I had to do it. I was tracking down his lieutenants so you would be safe. I didn’t...”

He was cut off as one of John’s wrists squirmed free and connected with his face again. “John! Stop!” he gasped, the shock of the attack stunning him. “John!”

“Doctor Watson! Stop!” a nurse gasped from the doorway, a buzzer sounding in the hallway. The nurse and two orderlies were in the room in a matter of seconds, pulling John off of him as Sherlock held his bleeding lip, slowly sitting up and watching his best friend struggle against their grips. “Doctor Watson, please you have to calm down or we’ll have to sedate you. Take him to a quiet room and restrain him. Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“How could you abandon me?” John shouted as he was dragged away, “I loved you.”

Grudgingly, Sherlock nodded as he rose to his feet, watching John fight, the soldier’s legs flailing out wildly as the two men dragged him from the room. “John...” he called as the older man disappeared, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to bar you entrance until he’s calmed down. Perhaps you should try coming with someone else. He really hasn’t reacted that way to any of his other visitors...”

Sherlock nodded, trying to wrap his overactive mind around what to do next. He really thought John would have forgiven him and they would have been alright. Perhaps it had been naive on his part to think that John would have greeted him with open arms on his first visit. With a little doctoring and a cloth full of ice from the nurse, Sherlock headed back for the entrance, ignoring the shouts of John being sequestered down the hall.

****

Greg Lestrade was in a fabulous mood, had been for the past week and a half. He’d solved three cases in that time, he was sleeping well, and he got this excited, fluttery feeling in his stomach when the end of the day was approaching and he knew he’d be with John in a short time. Everyone at the yard who associated with him had noticed, and how could they not? He’d gone from being over stressed, overworked and haggard to grinning like a kid overnight. 

It was a bit bizarre to think of going to a mental hospital as a date but it’s what his time with John had begun to feel like. He brought food and they shared it, they talked, they occasionally kissed, and if John was feeling tired from his medication they curled up on the couch in the common area. He didn’t like that John was having a hard time adjusting to his medication but he secretly enjoyed those days the best.

Today he had pizza and John’s usual favorite tea with him as he entered the ward. His powers of observation seemed improved when it came to John now because he could tell with one glance from the nurse behind the desk that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry, he’s...” she’d started to say when Greg cut in.

“Take me to him. I take full responsibility for my own safety.” She’d tried to argue about John’s doctor but Lestrade wouldn’t hear it and slid the pizza and tea onto the desk. “Screw the doctor, he talks to me. Let me help him!” Half a minute later he was being led through two locked doors into a hallway lined with isolated rooms. He could hear John screaming all the way down the hall and he broke into a light jog to get to the man faster.

The orderlies had taken John from his usual hospital room and into a secure room with a single bed and an observation window in the door. Forcing John to lay back they had restrained his arms and legs with large leather straps. After exchanging a quick word, one left following the tiny nurse. John knew they were off to find a shot of something to calm him down but he could care less at the moment. All he wanted was to rip off the straps and find Sherlock, to scream at the man for all the pain he had inflicted. Of course he had lost sight of the youngest Holmes several minutes ago but even without seeing him the anger couldn’t be quelled. 

Sherlock was alive and well and obviously hadn’t changed one bit. And he had left John believing he was dead, had essentially abandoned him to unnecessary grief. 

Thrashing about John tried to break the straps, military training kicking in as he went about this mumbling and cursing, “I’m going to kill him.” 

Greg watched in horror as a nurse entered the room with John, a capped needle clutched protectively in her hand. “Stop!” he called out, dashing after her into the room. “What are you doing? He can’t explain what happened if you drug him!” Turning toward John, Greg’s heart sank and he slowly approached the bed, hands held up in an attempt to calm.

“John...John, babe, stop. Look at me,” he insisted, his mouth streaming an endless supply of calming placation's as he tried to gain John’s attention. When the man finally turned to look at him, he tried to smile, even though he felt like a child who’d been told Christmas was cancelled. “Hey, there you are. What’s gotten into you?” he murmured, sliding his fingers into John’s and squeezing reassuringly. “Are you okay?” he asked, his other hand dragging across John’s hair.

The nurses and the orderlies continued to linger, but relaxed when they saw Greg’s calming influence on John.

John could do very little to pull away from Greg as he was strapped down to the bed. His eyes flashed wildly about trying to figure out where he was before settling on the DI beside him. 

“I’m not okay...He’s alive.” John said immediately, “Sherlock’s alive. He came to see me. He was in my bloody room Lestrade!” 

His heart was pounding in his chest as he relayed what had happened only a few moments ago. “He’s alive.” he repeated, “And I need to get out of these bloody straps and find him cause I’m going to kill him.” 

Greg glanced back at the nurses and the orderlies before turning back to John, his despondent tone soft and soothing. “I’ll take these off as soon as you calm down, John,” he murmured softly, settling himself on the edge of the bed and keeping their fingers entwined. “Slow down, let’s talk this through,” he murmured, his fingers playing with John’s trying to relax him even further while keeping his mind focused on whatever had caused this. “John, you know why you’re here. You’re not stupid and you’re not crazy, in spite of what some people have to say on the matter. Slow down and think about this. Why were you hurting yourself, John?” he asked sadly, very slowly pulling out the leather tail on the restraint but not releasing it just yet.

He blinked up at Greg several times trying to clear his head. He was in the hospital because he had tried to kill himself. The pain of being alone had been too much to cope with, his survivors guilt having won over common sense, and he had tried to kill himself because the man he had found himself desperately in love with had done just that. The difference was John had seen Sherlock’s death. Had seen him jump from the top of the hospital; his body broken on the sidewalk covered in blood. 

“I’m here because Sherlock Holmes killed himself and I couldn’t stand to be without him.” John voiced, “I-tried to kill myself because he was gone and I couldn’t deal with being left behind again.” 

But then he had seen Sherlock. Had touched him, punched him and taken out all his grief on a corporeal form....hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure anymore, everything was foggy in his mind. 

“I saw him Greg.” he whispered, “I saw Sherlock in my room.” 

Greg didn’t know what to say. John had never shown any signs of being delusional before and he just stared down into John’s earnest gaze as he stroked the back of his hand.

“Are you going to stay laying down so that nurse doesn’t have to stick you?” he asked, resting one of his strong hands on John’s chest while his other started slowly undoing the restraints. “John... I’d be happy if it were true and I don’t doubt that you thought you saw him, but he’s gone. You know he’s gone. I saw his body, you watched him jump.” As he freed one of John’s wrists he gently rubbed his thumb over where he’d been bound. “I know you’re struggling with it, but you’ve been doing so well.” As he released the other arm he lifted the hand he’d been gently pressing John down with, not surprised when the man sat up on reflex.

He didn’t even pay any attention to the other people in the room, sliding onto the bed and opening his arms. “Come here,” he murmured, guiding John into his arms. Looking across the room, he nodded to the staff that they were alright and couldn’t help but smirk when one of the nurses sighed in relief and asked if they could have three of those on staff.

As the room cleared, Lestrade threw caution to the wind, pulling John right onto his lap. “Tell me what happened,” he murmured softly, brushing a kiss against John’s temple.

The moment the restraints released John, his body practically bounced into a sitting position, poised and ready to attack anyone that might want to tie him down again. No one made a move though, only Greg, who moved onto the bed and wrapped his arms around John. It was different, John thought, but different in a nice way. 

He took a deep breath before relaxing against the other man. Muscles finally loosen from the sudden rampage. Staff cleared the room and John allowed himself to be pulled on to Greg’s lap. He buried his head in the man’s shoulder trying to sort out what had happened. Had he really hit Sherlock? Or had he just been flinging his arms about in anger? 

“I was sleeping or at least trying to. The medication was making everything fuzzy and I thought a nap might sort things out.” he started to explain, “Then I heard a nurse calling to me and saying I had a visitor...when I looked up it was Sherlock. He looked exactly like he had the day-” his voice caught not wanting to say ‘day of his death’. “Maybe it’s the medication, maybe I’m just having an adverse side effect or something.” 

Pulling his head back he looked at Greg with a tired smile, “you’re right, I saw him jump. There’s no way he could have survived that fall. I’m probably just seeing things.”

Greg sighed and rested his forehead against John’s, his fingers dragging up and down the man’s arm. “John, does this have to do with...this?” he asked softly, not sure if he actually wanted an answer to the question. “Is this...making things harder for you? I don’t want that, John. Not at all. If you want me to...slow down, to stop, that won’t change how often I come or...or any of that,” he murmured, pulling back so he could look John in the eye. “I wish I knew what was right, here John. I really am useless at doing the right thing when trying to be supportive.” It had been part of the reason his wife had left him. Now he was supposed to help someone who desperately needed someone who knew what they were doing.

“Just...just keep talking, I know you won’t tell your doctor. Tell me as a doctor. What do you think happened?” he asked, sliding John’s legs back off him but keeping hold of his hand.

John moved off Greg and back onto the bed watching the other man closely. It was true that he probably wouldn’t talk to the doctor’s about what he was going though as he was still trying to process what to tell them and what not to tell them. Britain still believed Moriarty was really an actor named Richard Brook. How could he trust them to actually listen to him when they wouldn’t even listen to the truth. 

Perhaps that’s why it was easier to talk to Lestrade. They had both been there for the fall, both had seen what pure evil could do when it was in the form of a short well dressed psychopath. But he didn’t want to tell Greg what he really thought was going on. 

“I think it’s the stress of the situation,” he replied, “being locked up in a hospital with a bunch of truly insane people and being watched every second of the day like I’m a criminal... I think that, coupled with an adverse reaction to the medication has me seeing things. I’ve seen it before in a few of my own patients. Sometimes the problems of others can manifest themselves in our minds and we start to believe we’re truly crazy...it should pass in a few days.” 

He gave Greg’s hand a squeeze to reassure him. “I’m just not used to any of this. To being on the other side of the glass as it were.” he smiled a bit wider, “And don’t you dare think it has something to do with you. You’ve been nothing but brilliant throughout this whole ordeal and I wouldn’t have been able to progress like I have without you.” John rested his other hand on their entwined hands and held them tightly. “And I don’t want you to stop. I want you Greg and it's making me dizzy and excited and sick to my stomach all at the same time but it’s something I want.” he tilted his head and gave Greg a peck on the lips, “I want to be your-” John suddenly felt flush and had to look away before muttering the final bit, “-boyfriend.”

“Never had an occasion when ‘you make me sick to my stomach’ has ever been flattering or exciting to hear,” Greg teased after a moment of reveling in how truly wonderful it might be to have John as his boyfriend. It was the most bizarre and incredible thing to be suddenly falling so quickly for John, even when the man wasn’t nearly his usual sparkling, quick witted self.

Grinning against his skin, Greg began gently pressing kisses along John’s neck, guiding them both down against the length of the bed. Tangling their legs together, Greg pulled John against him, resting his hand over John’s heart. “I’m glad. I don’t know when exactly it happened but I’m absolutely nuts about you, John. And I want you...I want you... I want you to come and stay with me for a bit when you’re out. I’ve been wanting to take a leave for a while now and I can’t think of anything I’d like better than to kick around either here or Baker Street with you for a couple of months, only worrying about what to make for dinner and whether I remembered to pick up tea. If it works out we could... Well, think on it a bit,” he murmured, returning his mouth to John’s neck.

“Hey,” John brought his hands up to cup either side of Greg’s face and make the other man look at him. “I don’t have to think about it.” he smiled the first genuine smile he’d had since being admitted to the hospital. “I’d love to spend more time with you. Though I’m not sure I would want that time spent in this loony bin or Baker Street for that matter.” 

John didn’t even know what he was planning but he figured both of them could do with a holiday. Get out of the big city and go somewhere quiet to get over everything that had happened in the past year. “I have a friend who owns a bit of land over in Ireland that he rarely uses, maybe I can convince him to let us stay there for a few weeks...once I’m out of here, of course.” 

Grinning broadly, Greg pulled John’s hips forward until his thigh was pressed firmly between them. “That sounds lovely,” he whispered, the strange, giddy feeling he’d been fighting against overwhelming him. It felt like being a ruddy teenager again. “I wonder how long they’re going to leave us locked in here,” he breathed, trailing his fingers down John’s throat, teasing the man’s collarbone before slipping them up under the hospital grays that John had taken to wearing more often than his own clothes. 

The warmth of John’s skin sent tremors of sensation up through his fingertips, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he held his body over John’s, wrapping around him like a protective barrier from the outside world. “You’re so gorgeous when you smile,” he whispered, subtly rolling his own hips forward to emphasize his point as he leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

Having another man’s arousal pressed against him was something John could safely say he had never thought he would experience. Sure, he’d served in the army but he had never paid as much attention to the men there like he was to the man against him now. He found himself wishing they weren’t in a room with a window, let alone a hospital because the things John wanted to do to this man weren’t for the eyes of an audience.

Pressing back against Lestrade he let his own hands travel down to grip the man’s arse. 

Unfortunately before he could go further there was the obvious sound of someone clearing their throat. He pulled back to look over Greg’s shoulder at the small nurse in the doorway blushing a furious red. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen but if Doctor Watson is feeling better he can return to his normal room.” her eyes flicked towards the camera in the corner, warning the two men that they were most certainly being monitored if not recorded. 

John ducked his head back against Greg’s chest to hide his grin. “Right, should probably get back.” 

“I’m also to remind Inspector Lestrade that he’s left a pizza and tea at the front desk.” 

****

Sherlock sat in his chair at 221B Baker Street, violin in hand but he just plucked at the strings in irritation. His jaw still ached too much to put it to his chin. He couldn’t stop thinking about John and how perhaps it hadn’t the best place for him to reappear from the dead, a mental hospital. But it had sparked something in him to see John again in the flesh. Even with the violence he’d felt like a part of himself awaken seeing him. John would come around. They were soulmates after all. John just fit him, like they’d been friends their entire lives.

He turned his eyes to John’s chair, glaring at the occupant, who most assuredly wasn’t John. His brother was wearing that smirk that said ‘I told you so, little brother,’ and he had a feeling it wasn’t going away anytime soon. “And to what do I owe the pleasure tonight,” he sighed, lifting the ice that Mycroft had insisted he use back to his face.

Mycroft sat watching his brother closely, it was obvious the meeting with John Watson hadn’t gone well when Sherlock had returned to Baker Street with a swollen jaw. Of course seeing his brother this way simply made Mycroft gloat, he knew things hadn’t gone well, the drive in his pocket was proof of that. 

“Failed to deduce how John would react to your return? Pity I wasn’t there in person to see it.” he mused, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a square envelope. “I’m just here to make sure you’re settling back in, and also to deliver a bit more bad news.” he handed the envelope containing a single flash drive to Sherlock. He personally wouldn’t call it bad news and instead enjoyed the idea of calling it ‘icing on the cake’ but he wasn’t about to say such things out loud. They were brothers after all and family supported one another even if they didn’t get along. 

Sherlock looked at Mycroft as he slid the drive out of the envelope, holding it between his fingers. After a pregnant pause he grabbed his laptop off the floor and inserted the drive, his face showing nothing as he opened the video file. 

_“You’re right, I saw him jump.”_

_“ I want to be your...boyfriend.”_

_“You have the most beautiful smile...”_

As Lestrade began kissing John and John kissed back, Sherlock closed his computer with a snap. Steepling his fingers, he regarded his brother with resignation. “I am open to suggestions. If Lestrade hadn’t come along, John would have known I was alive. The rest is...isn’t...important, Mycroft.”

It wasn’t that Mycroft was a spiteful man, he did love his brother, but sometimes Sherlock could be a right pain. The joy he thought he would feel when his brother watched the recent video of John was overshadowed by the incessant need to be brotherly; to push Sherlock over the threshold and past his own denial. 

He tapped the arm of his chair several times with the tips of his fingers trying to show that he didn’t really care what Sherlock did with this news. Yet the fact his brother was asking for suggestions was something entirely unlike him. 

“You’re in denial and this silly game is becoming tedious.” he regarded his brother for a moment, “Do you want John back?” 

Sherlock stared right back at Mycroft, not entirely sure what his brother was on about. While Mycroft was not nearly as clever as he was, there were certain things he’d learned over the years to defer to his brother’s better judgement. Matters of people he cared about were among those things. 

“Of course I want him back,” he bit out softly, plucking again at the strings of his violin to hide his anxiety. “I want our lives back. Me and John, solving crimes. I keep experiments in the kitchen, he blogs and makes tea. Why did this have to become so complicated? Lestrade is going to ruin it all. If John stays with him he’ll move out. I know he will. Even if he wanted to come back, he’d stay with Lestrade out of... some sort of belief he’s beholden to the man. They’d never work. John belongs here.”

He looked around the flat, his eyes taking in how his and John’s things went together. He’d cleaned up the bottles and the dishes since he’d been home but it still didn’t feel right without John. “How do I fix this?” he asked softly, his tone for once not holding an ounce of his usual attitude.

“You wish to blame Lestrade but who is really to blame for this?” Mycroft sighed, he had never been one to bother with the emotion of love. There had never been enough time to go through the process involved and he found it rather boring. “My dear brother, the only way to fix it would be to admit your feelings for John,” he held up a hand to prevent Sherlock from protesting. “It is obvious to me that you will never know how to express the emotion but for the sake of your own happiness I suggest you try.” 

Instead of a biting retort, Sherlock stayed silent, something he was sure Mycroft was getting immense satisfaction from. He’d always known that John was special to him but what Mycroft was suggesting...

“I’ll try,” he murmured, getting up and moving to the couch, signifying to his brother that the conversation was now over and he was going back to work. This would undoubtedly require far more brainpower than most of the cases he’d solved.


End file.
